I’ll never forget the drive to Ryeworth in Kingham, Oxfordshire – a proper faff from the moment we left the M40. I’d packed the car with enough cheese, chutneys and a bottle of elderflower cordial to see us through three days, dreaming of lazy cottage suppers. But five minutes in, I took a wrong turn near Burford, ending up in a muddy farm track with sheep eyeing me like I’d gatecrashed their picnic. “Bloody satnav,” I muttered, reversing into a ditch that wasn’t quite deep enough to swallow the car but deep enough to make me sweat. Half an hour later, covered in cow pat splatters, we finally rolled up to Ryeworth, this gorgeous stone cottage tucked away in a quiet corner of the Cotswolds, its garden bursting with lavender and just begging for a GandT.

First impressions? Pure bliss. The place is like something out of a Laura Ingalls Wilder book, but with Wi-Fi and a Rayburn cooker that promised hearty meals without the hassle. We dumped our bags and beelined for the kitchen – the heart of the operation. I’d spotted a farmers’ market in nearby Shipton-under-Wychwood on the way (once I’d extricated myself from the mud), so we hot-footed it there straight away. It’s a proper local affair, stalls groaning under piles of just-picked asparagus, artisan sourdough, and cheeses that could make a grown man weep. I grabbed venison sausages from a ruddy-faced butcher, a wedge of Cotswold Blue, and some forced rhubarb so pink it looked painted. “This’ll do for supper,” I declared, feeling like a telly chef already.

Back at Ryeworth, with the sun dipping low over the thatched roofs, we cracked on with cooking. Or rather, I did – my other half nobly chopped veg while I wrestled the Rayburn. Light humour ensued when my attempt at a rhubarb crumble turned into a soggy landslide; “It’s deconstructed,” I joked, scraping it into bowls with custard from the local dairy we’d nabbed at the market. Paired with those sausages grilled with rosemary from the garden, and a bottle of red from the offy in Kingham, it was spot on. We ate at the scrubbed oak table, windows flung open to the evening chorus of blackbirds, and I couldn’t help a quiet reflection: when did life get so rushed that a simple home-cooked meal feels like luxury? Here, with the cottage’s Aga-warmth wrapping around us, it was a gentle nudge to savour the small stuff.

Next morning, breakfast was non-negotiable: Ryeworth’s kitchen came into its own with fresh eggs from the market (I swear those hens were local legends), scrambled with chives and served on thick toast slathered in homemade blackcurrant jam we’d smuggled in. Fuelled up, we wandered to The Wild Rabbit in Kingham, a pub that’s basically Ryeworth’s cheeky neighbour – all wonky beams and roaring fires. They do a cracking ploughman’s: hunks of mature cheddar, pickled onions sharp as a tack, and bread so crusty it fought back. We nursed pints of Hook Norton Best Bitter, chatting with locals about the village fete (apparently, the vicar makes a mean Victoria sponge). Lunch stretched lazily, washed down with their venison pie that melted in the mouth – proper Oxfordshire comfort food, none of your fancy fusion nonsense.

Afternoon brought another market raid, this time Burford’s little Saturday affair just a hop away (sticking to the back lanes to avoid more ditches). I loaded up on pork pies, greengages, and a slab of fudge that didn’t make it home. Back at the cottage, dinner was my pièce de résistance: a slapdash shepherd’s pie using leftover market lamb, mashed spuds fluffy as clouds, and a side of buttered kale. It bubbled away merrily, filling the air with that homely scent that makes you forget the world outside. We polished it off with sticky toffee pudding from the pub’s recipe (cheated with a takeaway slice), laughing about my crumble disaster over mugs of builder’s tea.

Staying at Ryeworth was a feast for the senses from the off – mud-splattered arrival and all. Those first impressions of stone walls, laden markets and pub grub etched deep; it’s the kind of place that reminds you food isn’t just fuel, it’s the thread weaving the best memories.